


E.161

by ofsevenseas



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, M/M, Post-Canon, Slash, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-06
Updated: 2011-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-14 11:52:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofsevenseas/pseuds/ofsevenseas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John compares Sherlock to Carmen Sandiego, Sherlock wishes for spontaneous pyrokinesis, and Mycroft is reduced to using 200 characters at a stretch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	E.161

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onedergirl29](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=onedergirl29).



> Written for the 2010 Sherlock Secret Santa challenge.
> 
> I've tweaked a few things post-reveal, and it is completely accurate to say that this story would not make nearly as much sense without the help of [morelindo](http://morelindo.livejournal.com/profile), the beta who gently suggested all sorts of essential improvements, and [blighted_garden](http://blighted-garden.livejournal.com), who read this when she was sleep-deprived, so that she could tell me exactly how confusing I was being. I am in their debt. :P

He had meant it as an offhand comment, the sort of casual bone tossed to assuage John’s resentment. Sherlock had learned from an early age that offended people are easily handled with a compliment, and he hadn’t wanted the distraction of John’s disappointment weighing him down. But now, staring down at John’s unconscious form in a St. Bart’s bed (single-occupancy, private ward, two of Mycroft’s nurses circling intermittently), Sherlock is struck by his own aptitude for the truth.

 _I’d be lost without my blogger,_ Sherlock thinks. _Indeed._

His hand tightens on the plastic of the bed. Sherlock notes absently that the lilies on John’s bedside are beginning to brown - Harry will be due for her weekly visit tomorrow then; Clara always brings a bunch of fresh flowers with her. It seems fitting that Sherlock will not be holding vigil. That he will, instead, be seeking vengeance.

\---

The first time it happens, Sherlock hijacks a Hummer (cherry-red, 2317kg, five doors, engine capacity 3.7L) and drops Moriarty’s Peruvian drug contact off at the local police station, all relevant files taped to the man’s chest and highlighted in an eminently eye-smarting shade of yellow. Sherlock makes sure the criminal is securely cocooned before ducking away into the night.

He deletes the offending text message with an unusually savage jab and boards a plane for Fiji.

\---

 _New contact number. Moriarty has hacked old phone. Find your leak. SH_

 _There is no leak. Mummy wants to know if you will be home this Christmas. MH_

 _Unless John is interfacing hospital monitors to text me, you have a leak. SH_

 _Dr. Watson remains stable. And it would not compromise your safety to pick up once in a while. MH_

 _There are currently more important demands on my time than speaking with you. SH_

 _I had no idea you were such a traditionalist. MH_

 _Shut up if you have nothing constructive to say, and DO SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR SECURITY. Am forwarding proof. If anything happens to him, Mycroft. SH_

 _FW: It’s nice to know that Mycroft cares, but SIS agents on 24/7 hovering detail is getting annoying. John_

 _Hm. Pending preliminary results, Dr. Watson’s neuro-imaging scans are extremely suggestive. MH_

 _Explain yourself. SH_

 _So I hear you’ve got Mycroft’s knickers in a twist. Do be careful in Fiji, Moriarty’s not too happy with you at the moment. -John_

 _I WILL POISON ALL YOUR PASTRIES, MYCROFT. SH_

\---

Wiping his hands clear of sand, Sherlock grimaces at all the places where he can feel fine grains rubbing against his skin. This one had proved elusive, burrowed deep inside the military hierarchy, with no way to clearly implicate him. In the end, he had to use Mycroft’s Australian contacts - but the job is done, and done well.

He makes a mental note to stop in the airport to buy a book on conversational Thai and packs the bare minimum of necessities before leaving.

 _It appears that Dr. Watson is indeed ‘texting’ you. Fascinating. MH_

Sherlock does not swear or immediately book a ticket back to England, but it is a close thing.

\---

 _Following you is a bit like playing Carmen Sandiego. Can’t you slow down for a breather? -John_

 _Needs must. I will make it up to you when I return to England. Remind me of where we first had intercourse? SH_

 _Are you sexting me? 221B, the sofa. -John_

 _Not as such. Most people do not fall into comas and begin texting their partners. Is the hospital treating you well? SH_

 _Haven’t the faintest why, but I can still talk to you. Mycroft keeps making these faces when he reads my PET scans. Happy hunting, and if you try this big hero leaving his damsel at home shite when I’m awake, I’ll staple you to our bed. -John_

\---

 **Explosion Rocks Thai Resort, No Casualties Reported**  
Washington Post

 **Authorities Ask: Return of Large-Scale Terrorism?**  
The New York Times

 **Human-trafficking Ring Uncovered in South-east Asia: Mastermind At Large**  
AP

 **Downing Street Calls for International Initiative to End Exploitation of Women**  
BBC News

\---

 _Harry visited and cried on my blankets for half an hour before your brother’s men handed her into a car. You pillock, have the sense to stay away from explosions if you’re going to blow things up. -John_

 _Mycroft told you. SH_

 _No, my Spider-sense tingled. -John_

 _More of your inane pop culture references. And it was a brothel specializing in prepubescent girls. I thought you would appreciate the gesture. SH_

 _I appreciate you alive and breathing more. -John_

 _Noted. SH_

\---

“Jim,” Moran rumbles over the phone. “We’ve got him.”

\---

 _How was Russia? -John_

 _Too much testosterone. You would have appreciated the view. Both views. SH_

 _And have you flounce all the way home? -John_

 _Hard to flounce in an arm-cast, I think. SH_

 _You idiot. -John_

 _Come back with your shield or on it, Sherlock. -John_

 _Harry’s been visiting again, I see. SH_

 _I’m afraid Moriarty is escalating. I shall have to activate Plan 7b. MH_

\---

 **Death of Well Loved MP Shocks Devon**  
The Herald Express

 **Retired Army Colonel Found Dead in Milton Keynes  
MoD: No Comment**  
BBC News

 **Col. Moran Responsible for Security Leaks, say Anonymous Sources**  
The Guardian

\---

 _Mycroft, what are you playing at? Are you keeping John from contacting me? SH_

 _Check the 7th votary candle shelf at Begoña. MH_

\---

Sherlock knows he is closing in on Moriarty when he receives several taunting faxes, snapshots of Mrs. Hudson handing a biscuit tin to the waitress at Speedy’s (single-mother, three- or four-year-old girl, fond of apple sauce), Harry slyly linking fingers with Clara (they’ve reconciled in the wake of John and Harry’s corresponding sober streak), ‘Anthea’ following Mycroft up into his house, and last of all, John’s EKG flatlining.

\---

 _Where are you? MH_

 _Don’t wait up. SH_

 _Sherlock, don’t be rash. MH_

 _Harry, John’s deposit box key is in my brother’s possession. As John is my heir and you are his, I hope you will dispose of our belongings with consideration. I would like for my ashes (if any) to be mixed with his. Thank you. Sherlock Holmes._

\---

“Sherry! I see you’ve had my invitation!” Moriarty looks strained around the edges, almost mournful in a charcoal suit and black tie, loafers unscratched because - ah, vanity, thy name is man.

“Rather unsubtle, that last set of riddles. And prone to being flattened by Quranic manuscripts, as well.” Moriarty claps his hands together and shrugs, his mouth stretching out in a parody of a smile, teeth perfectly white and straight (whitened, about 7 days ago, in Zurich).

His grin reminds Sherlock of his first trip to London, still clutching at mummy’s hand as he stared at the stuffed shark hanging above his head while Mycroft took notes on narwhals. Ridiculous, because that memory should have been deleted, along with all his observations about John.

“Uh-oh,” Moriarty trills, “Is baby Sherry angry with daddy? Are you lonely now that your puppy’s said bye-bye?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock enunciates, wishing for a more dramatic end to their game: spontaneous pyrokinesis, radioactive spiders, though Reichenbach is stunningly beautiful as always. “I said I would catch you, and I have.”

“Such a dearie ducks it is, and the things it says.” Moriarty is clearly enjoying himself, probably imagining that Sherlock was playing along all these months. He keeps one hand casually tucked into his trouser pocket and raises an eyebrow. When Moriarty begins on his strange, accent-swooping rant again, Sherlock presses “send”.

 _Boring._

Sherlock finds that he does indeed relish the look of surprise on Moriarty’s face when the sniper’s bullet hits, though the moment is cut short as Moriarty topples over, loose-limbed, into the waterfall. Sherlock dashes forward to follow his trajectory, making sure that this particular opponent does not come back from the dead, but strong arms wrestle him back. The revenge burning in his throat transmutes itself into pure animal hatred as he thinks of Mycroft and his damned insistence on propriety.

The SIS can go to hell. He struggles again, long limbs milling, trying to strike for weak points, even as he’s kneeling on the ground.

“Sherlock!” The scents flood his nose: crushed grass, spring mud, gunmetal oil and John, John, _John_.

“Here, let him up.” John’s face is warm, alive with concern. Sherlock nearly laughs outright when he sees the outline of a handgun holster, hastily closed, on John’s hip. He succumbs to it when he pulls his buzzing, day-old mobile out.

 _I congratulate you on your victory, though a less precipitous disposal of your mobile would have served us all better. At least you had the sense to hire one of my old snipers. MH_

“You’re an idiot.” John pulls him in for a rough kiss, teeth clacking together, tasting a little of French butter and bacon. Sherlock grins into his mouth, unrepentant, as the waters rush by.


End file.
